Michael's Reviews > G.

G. by John Berger
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Jul 22, 09


This book ended up really getting on my nerves, so that I couldn't finish it. Which is too bad, because I was really getting to love Berger at his best (see my review of And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos) and he basically laid it on so thick here that now I know I'll have a harder time stomaching his style even in cases when it's much more artfully applied. This book won the Booker Prize in '72, so I was especially disappointed. He comes off more or less as a twat with some grand theory about every little thing who has to stop the action every five seconds to say something like:

"In morality there are no mysteries. That is why there are no moral facts, only moral judgments. Moral judgments require continuity and predictability. A new, profoundly surprising fact cannot be accommodated by morality..."

That's in the middle of a scene when the protagonist and a married woman are driving off to have sex for the first time. And Berger wants to get all semantic about what morality is and isn't. There's really an interjection like this (and the one quoted above keeps going...) every couple of paragraphs. The fact that most of the book, and thus most of the theorizing, is pretty much about sex makes it even smarmier. (More smarmy?) A book about sex where 75% of the sentences are constructed around conjugations of the verb "to be."
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